Something Else
by witchchild
Summary: When hate turns to pity, and love becomes something else...what, precisely, is an identity? Can it be lost? A dark fic. Slashy. Nothing particularly objectionable.
1. Part 1

Author's notes: This is a work in progress. I have another work in progress also on ff.net, and I intend to work on that as well, but I will probably finish this once first. I'm not sure how long it will be, as I intended it to be only a one-part ficlet, but I didn't finish it when I wanted to, so I decided to post what I have and add the rest later. Depending on how it progresses, I may continue it further. I may edit it later, as well. 

Reviews and criticism are welcome, but no flames, please. Unless you're offering candles too. 

This isn't exactly a romance, but then, nothing I write ever is, really. I don't think anyone is OUT of character…since I think this may very well be what their characters are like in these situations. In any case, read for yourself and decide. I have done.

****

Something Else

There are nights that he lies awake for hours, cradling the long, gaunt body in his arms, wondering when his hate turned to pity. When he sleeps, he still dreams of a dark figure towering over him, stalking imperiously through the corridors of Hogwarts with long black robes billowing out behind. Awake, things are different.

He avoids sleep when he can, despising the lies that his dreams represent. He has come to cherish what little truth he can find, having seen the consequences of Dumbledore's manipulations. He has seen the death, the pain, the loss that they resulted in. He knows all too well the stakes of such games.

The body in his arms shifts restlessly, and he brushes a finger over thin lips, strokes a sunken cheek. He tries not to remember all the power and grace that once resided in this skinny frame, the pride that once burned in those ebon eyes. His grasp tightens, almost imperceptibly, and the other man cries out.

His voice is harsh, croaking, a parody of the silk and velvet he once possessed. His voice reflects everything about him, shows what ruination can exist in the world. He does not wake on crying out, merely tenses a bit more, worsening the knots constricting every muscle of his body. The man holding him lets go, and listens to him scream.

Somewhere, dancing just out of reach, is an identity. An identity consisting of strength and pride, anger and ambition. Every scream pushes this identity further out of reach, until the two men—one sleeping, the other observing—know that it is too far gone ever to be regained.

As the last echoes fade, he walks out of the room, leaving the gasping wreckage of what was once Severus Snape still asleep on the bed. The adjoining chamber is dimly lit by a small fireplace, and he crouches before it, his face impassive. After a moment he rises, turning to face the old wizard uncomfortably ensconced in a plush armchair. Their eyes meet, and the old one looks away first. 

"For pity's sake, Harry," he whispers, eyes downcast.

"For pity's sake, what, Albus?" the young man responds mildly. He paces the room slowly, hands clasped behind his back. He holds no wand, but then, he doesn't need one. 

The old wizard's face crumples. "Will you never let him heal?"

He ceases pacing. Silence falls over the room, broken only by the sharp crackle of burning logs. 

"Answer me this, Albus." He stares hard into the other man's eyes. "Answer my question, and then, perhaps." His voice is calm, low and steady. The old man shudders at the sound of it. "When did you first realize that only another Dark wizard would be able to defeat Voldemort?"

He stands for a moment and watches, then smiles, reassuring and somehow smug. He stays just long enough to brand the old man's expression into his memory, the shame creeping across those withered features. Then he turns, and goes back into the bedroom.

To be continued…


	2. Part 2

Author's Note: This fic is a work in progress. I'm not entirely sure where it's going, but Harry has some issues to work through, and for most of the fic, if not all, he will _not_ be nice. At all. 

This is a very small update, but I plan to add more very soon. I hope you enjoy it—or that it at least doesn't make you feel _too_ queasy. Peace.

The body on the bed is wracked with tension, long, gnarled fingers twisting the sweat-drenched sheets. He studies this, the remains of something great; he studies this, the object of his pity.

One eye cracks open and fixes on him, capturing his gaze. He holds the look, still smiling, and the lazy arrogance in his visage grows as the other man begins to speak.

"Don't." Each examines the other minutely, searching for any sign of weakness. 

"Don't what?" he asks at last, satisfaction coloring his voice. The other man turns away, stares at the wall, the bedpost, the floor.

"I do not want your pity," he rasps. 

"Ah. Of course." He reaches out and grasps the man's chin, tilting his head up until their eyes meet. "And tell me, Severus, what if I didn't give you my pity? What would you have left?"

Black eyes drop to the floor. He continues as if he has not noticed.

"Albus wants me to let you heal—let you go, I think. Would you like to leave, Severus? Leave here, leave me? Go off on your own? The world is a big place, after all." He looks away, tracing with his eyes the line of the stones in the wall. "I'm sure you'd be very happy." His voice hisses the last word, and he glances sharply at the man. 

Choking sobs tear through his too-thin frame. He struggles to speak, struggles against a tightness in his chest, a pain and fear so familiar they scarcely hurt him at all. "Please, don't," he pleads, reaching out to clutch at a wrist, a robe, anything tangible, anything he can cling to. "Please."

"Severus." He breathes the name almost with relief, strokes the long black hair soothingly. "Of course you can stay."

The man calms instantly, but gazes at the open door with dread apparent on his face. A slow shuffle echoes in the room, and Albus stands there, eyes dull. 

"I will not seek to invade your privacy any longer, Harry." He nods curtly, but his eyes linger on the bent figure on the bed. "I wish you well, Severus," he whispers. He hesitates a moment longer, but retreats quickly at a gesture from Harry. The echoes of his voice fade quickly, and do not return.

To be continued.


End file.
